


Beside The Point

by Rubynye



Category: Captain America: The First Avenger - Fandom
Genre: Gang Rape, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slurs, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I ran up and pulled her out, and they grabbed hold of me, said I'd do just as well."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beside The Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stoatsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoatsandwich/gifts).



> All Thanks To: Dira Sudis for alpha reading, [](http://ilthit.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ilthit**](http://ilthit.dreamwidth.org/) for beta reading, and [Strange-radio](http://strange-radio.tumblr.com) for a fight scene beta read. And of course [Stoatsandwich](http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com) for the inaugural [Hydra Trash Compactor Challenge](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/HYDRA%20Trash%20Compactor%20Challenge/works).
> 
> Title: from ["It’s This Way"](http://exceptindreams.livejournal.com/251509.html) by Nazim Hikmet

Steve can't breathe. This is nothing new.

Steve can't breathe because there's a dick jammed down his throat, pressing down his tongue and straining the corners of his mouth, his nose mashed into dank scratchy pubes. Steve's on his knees in the back of a dusty alley, his arms pinned behind him, his jacket twisted around his elbows by the brute behind him. "That's it," Brute hisses, "keep going, fuck his punk face," in an endless chant to the jackass groaning over Steve, panting rank heat across his temple and through his hair. The others are laughing, cheering, banging on the wooden awning overhead so it clatters in cadence with Steve's pounding ears. As he chokes around the nasty mouthful, Steve squeezes his clenched fingers against the rim of the medal the girl pressed into his hand as she ran from the alley, as the gang pulled him into it.

He doesn't even know her name. He has to hope she made it home safe tonight, as he shivers on his scraped, stinging knees, thick drips slopped down his chin and chilly on his bared chest. Brute shoves his knee between Steve's thighs, humping him like he can fuck him through their pants, and please God and whichever saint's medal this is, Steve hopes uselessly they won't force him to that. His head swims, his heart bangs around his chest, and Jackass curses as he spurts down Steve's throat; he gags, retching airlessly, and can't hear Jackass's groaned, laughing comment but the _take it, bitch_ is painfully obvious.

Then Steve hears a voice he knows, he loves, he would know anywhere. "Where the -- hell -- let _go OF HIM!_!" Bucky bellows, and now Steve's belly does a full nauseous flip, bright spots flying behind his squeezed-shut eyelids. Oh God, oh no, Bucky found him, and this isn't a fight even he can win --

Buck gives it his best shot, bellowing as he plows into the shouting goons. Brute's dragged hollering off Steve, ripping his jacket away, and Steve convulses backwards before Jackass can grab him, barking his knuckles on the rough pavement as he wheezes and hacks, his ribs crackling as he tries to cough and inhale at the same time. There's a thud above him, Bucky's voice muffled suddenly, a rough hand clenching in Steve's hair. Still coughing, Steve pushes himself up rather than be pulled and sees Bucky pinned to the wall by the other three, the switchblade against his throat and his tie stuffed in his mouth. Good goddamn. Bucky's eyes burn with blue-hot flame, and Steve shapes his sore bleeding lips into a silent inadequate "sorry", swallowing hard against his roiling belly. This shitshow is Steve's fault.

And the bullies' doing, including the jackass who just came down Steve's throat, who yanks sharply on his hair. "Hey, punk, looks like your boyfriend showed up while the party's still swinging." Steve's throat's so raw he's not sure he could speak if he tried. He horks as he wrenches his head sideways, spitting towards the leg he can see at the edge of his vision, but he's still dizzy, chest threateningly tight, he hits nothing but pavement and Jackass just laughs.

So does the mook with the knife and the mousy brown hair, who seems to be in charge. At least, he was the one who pushed Steve to his knees in the first place, tucking his blade beneath Steve's chin as he had the first go. "Hold him," he hisses to his goons as he turns, his blade leaving Bucky's throat, and Steve sags all over in relief even though Mook the Knife steps up to him. "Got a deal for you pretty boys," he says, and Bucky shouts through the gag as the knife presses flat against Steve's throat. "I know you can do more with this punk mouth," he tells Steve, "so you show us on your sweetheart here. You suck him off nice now, let him come on your face and lick it up like a treat, and if we enjoy the show we'll let him go. You don't get him off, and I see what he can do with that dirty mouth of his while Mel and Buzz take their turns in your bony little ass. Whadda you say, fairy?"

After everything the slur's just one more glob in a coating of grime. Steve's tempted to wonder aloud if Mook the Knife knows more than five words. The blade turns, sliding its fine edge along his throat, but he's not scared: outside the heat of a fight, Mook the Knife probably remembers he can't actually get away with killing Steve, the cops around here won't stand for that at least. So Steve squeezes the medal, keeps his chin up and rasps out a simple, "Fuck you." Not exactly original, and all he gets is laughed at, but it's better than begging, than caving, than giving in. He already knows these guys won't let him get to his feet, so he leans forward, willing his trembling arms not to buckle beneath his weight, and the hand in his hair loosens with surprise, lax enough to shake off. Steve crawls forward, as the wind pries up his torn shirt and skims cold over his back, between five jeering idiots, towards Bucky.

Buck has a scraped-up chin and a puffy, darkening left eyelid, his lips distended around wadded cloth, his eyes are dark and wide and shiny wet. The mooks holding him grin viciously, Number Two making kissy-faces at Steve, until Bucky surges against their grip and they swear and scrabble to shove him back against the wall. Steve runs his chances against attacking either as he pushes up onto his aching knees, shoves the thought away as he swipes his filthy face on one sleeve, tilts his chin up and reclaims Bucky's gaze. He can do this. They can do this. He unfastens Bucky's slacks with aching fingers and hears Jackass shout behind him, "Sweet Lips knows his way into a guy's pants!" but Steve tells himself to tune the out the nonsense and keeps his eyes on Bucky, who stares right back as he chews the tie wedged into his mouth, trying to work it free.

Steve reaches in and draws Bucky's dick out, leaving his balls tucked away in folds of cloth. It's warm and plump already, half-hard from the rush of the fight maybe, Steve doesn't know. He's not gonna call Bucky by name here, that's not for this gang of bullies to hear, but as he turns his face down he murmurs "Hey," into velvety skin, licks downwards and ignores the bawdy cheering, suckles gently on the head the way Bucky always likes. Widening his mouth makes it ache at the corners, like his knees ache, like his battered ribs and sore joints all over, but it's Bucky hardening on his tongue, warm and familiar, and Steve knows just how to do this. He breathes deep through his nose and pushes down, his jaw creaking as he sinks down on Bucky to the root, and Bucky doesn't like to admit he likes this move, he worries about Steve's breathing so Steve can usually only get away with it when Buck's getting close. Now Steve goes for it right from the start, and Bucky shudders over him with a muffled groan, belly tensing against his forehead. They can do this.

 _C'mon, Buck,_ Steve thinks desperately as he sucks ruthlessly, running his tongue under the curve and up and down until he has to grab a breath, behind the head as he bobs and gasps and swallows. Normally he'd take his time, he'd go lavishly slow, wind Bucky up till he cursed fondly and blasphemed in delight, his hands curling around Steve's shoulders. But there's nothing normal about putting on a show for five bullies at knifepoint, except how Steve can't stand by and see someone hurt and do nothing, except how he's always getting himself into trouble and Bucky's always wading in after him, no matter that he doesn't deserve it. Steve curves his palms behind Bucky's thighs, pressing the medal against the steel-tense muscle beneath the slacks; he pushes down until his sore throat flutters around Bucky's cockhead, and doesn't let up sucking though his lungs burn and ghost lights flash behind his eyelids. Bucky shudders under his mouth, again and again, and Steve keeps going until Bucky softly nudges his knee with his shoe's toe. _Nearly there._ Steve keeps swallowing, keeps sucking, doesn't let himself breathe though his ribs feel like they're crumpling inwards and his heart bangs like it'll explode. A little more, a little, and --

Bucky groans, hips rocking up once, twice, three times, and Steve pulls off as the first jet falls onto his tongue, grits his teeth and pants through his nose as more land, ropy and slick, on his cheeks and chin and throat. Bucky coughs against that damn gag and Steve's chest aches in sympathy, but victory pounds inside him too as he licks Bucky's spunk off his upper lip and slides the medal up between his fingers, tucking it into Bucky's pocket. There, they did it, like he knew they could.

He looks up but Bucky's eyes are closed and his head hanging, his hair falling in inky arcs over his glittering-wet forehead. Real fear spikes in Steve's chest for the first time since he saw the gang dragging a screaming girl into this alley, his fingers shake as he tucks Bucky away. What if he thought wrong, what if Buck can't forgive him for this? What if --

Bucky's eyelashes lift the smallest fraction of an inch, bruised lids pulling back just far enough to show the dark feral gleam in his eyes. The very edge of his mouth curls up, and even sore and filthy all over Steve would smile back if he dared. He got it right. He knows the plan.

There's a smattering of sarcastic applauds behind him. "Ugh," Brute groans, "think I fucking came."

"You can have another turn later," Mook the Knife promises, and a chill runs down Steve's spine colder than the breeze across his goopy face. He knows what bullies are like, he goddamn knows, but there's always some bit of him that's outraged whenever they lie. Incoming footsteps: he ducks, dodges away, but trips over his own knee and sits down hard.

Steve looks up, and Mook the Knife grins and reaches for him. It takes everything in him to stay still for it, but Bucky's got a plan and Steve's not gonna fuck it up now, he reminds himself as his shoulder's gripped painfully tightly and he's dragged wobbling to his feet. "Very inspiring," Mook the Knife says, just as Steve notices he pocketed said knife. He thinks they're beaten. "Spunk's a good look on you, fairy." Rather than snarl, Steve glances over at Bucky sagging against the wall, shamming defeat, and loves him so much, promising him silently he'll make this up a thousand times. But first they have to get outta here.

"Then let him go," Steve rasps, like he's that dumb. He's dumb enough to run into a gang of bullies and pull a girl away from them, after all, by now they should believe anything of him. Playing into it burns white hot with shame, but _there's a plan, Rogers_ , Steve repeats to himself. Bucky's plan.

"After we've had enough of you." Jackass steps around to switch off with the last goon, who leans against the awning support and pulls out his dick as Mook the Knife smacks Steve's ass hard, sending him stumbling a step towards him. "Mel gets his turn while we sort out seconds. Treat him nice like you treated your boyfriend now."

'Mel' steps up to meet Steve, good, that gives more room to work with. Contemplating that and not the ten thousand angry words pushing behind his teeth, Steve gets down on his sparking knees and makes himself open his mouth, luring Mel into the mistake of pushing in slowly, holding his breath until --

Two shouts, a crash, the welcome thwacks of punches. Steve bites down _hard_ and Mel screams high and loud and deeply satisfying. Steve doesn't pause to figure out if he tastes blood, he spits and ducks down as Mel crumples over him, kicking blindly backwards as he shoves away before Mel's weight can pin him; his heel hits something hard but yielding, and Mel's noise chokes off into a stunned gurgle. Even better. Steve scrambles to his feet, staggers around and sees Jackass and Two in a twitching pile and Buck tossing his sodden tie at Brute, who dodges it right into Bucky's fist just as Mook the Knife lurches up, blade gleaming in his hand.

Steve legs it, defying his aching chest and shaking thighs, wide around the downed jackasses into a low tackle against the back of Mook the Knife's legs, who shouts wordlessly as he teeters; rolling away, Steve kicks his calf for good measure, scrambling back as Bucky twists the knife from his hand and socks him hard in the jaw. Mook the Knife wobbles, arms windmilling wildly, and Steve kicks him again behind the knee, pulling his legs out of the way as Mook the Knife goes down and Bucky jumps back.

Steve spots his discarded jacket in arm's reach and grabs it as he staggers to his feet. His chest burns rigidly and he wants to fold over and wheeze _so bad_ but if he does they'll lose the moment. Bucky steps in front of him, holding the knife up, and Steve would have something to say about that but he can barely stay standing, no air to waste.

But then Bucky lurches forward, head lowered and shoulders drawn in tight for another go, brandishing the knife in a wide arc as he snarls, "Got a deal for you assholes." Panting, swaying, Steve glances ahead of him: Jackass and Brute are scrabbling to their knees, Two's not moving, Mel's still doubled over crying and Mook the Knife groans weakly, just lifting hand to head. Steve would dearly love to pound them all into paste but even he can see now's the time to _get outta here_ , but Bucky's got a knife.

Steve can't let Bucky get into that kind of trouble, not because of him. He can't, he won't grab Buck's arm and whimper, but he lets himself slump just a little against Bucky's back, feels the tensed muscle tremble in shock and Bucky's neck turn as he glances over his shoulder. Whatever he was about to say shifts to, "Let us go," and he steps back rather than forwards.

Steve concentrates on keeping pace and on not collapsing. They back their way down the alley, no one comes after them, and once they're out Bucky grabs Steve around the shoulders and all but carries him home at a run.

* *** * 

They clean each other up in the bathtub, shivering in the cold water, not sparing the time to boil some up hot. Bucky's gonna have a shiner for a week, and Steve hurts absolutely all over, soap stinging his knees and knuckles and cheeks. But the worst hurt is Bucky's clear-eyed anguish as he curls a gentle hand halfway round Steve's throat and silently sponges Steve's face over and over, long after every trace must've been scrubbed away.

Except for how Steve still feels the alley's slime and grit even in a bathtub full of cold soapy water, how he can still taste bitterness in the back of his stinging sore throat, how wounded Bucky's eyes look staring into his. Steve breaks first, dropping his gaze to the strong lines of Bucky's body through the swirling water. There are bruises rising on his belly, smudged purple knuckle-marks, but he got them out. Like always, Steve got them into trouble and Bucky got them out.

"What happened, Stevie?" Bucky murmurs eventually, his wet hand cupping Steve's chin.

"Saw them dragging a girl into the alley," Steve tells him like confession, his eyes on the water as Bucky's thumb strokes his cheek. "She screamed, she looked so _scared_... I ran up and pulled her out, and they grabbed hold of me, said I'd do just as well." Bucky hisses through his teeth. "She pushed a medal into my hand as she ran. I didn't let them have it."

"You didn't let them have a _medal_ ," Bucky echoes, and Steve winces across his shoulders as he smiles, lopsided and chagrined. He deserves that, after what he let them take, what Bucky had to go through. "God, Steve. Running into alleys like you think you're a goddamn comics hero. I wish I could -- " Steve tenses even before Bucky grips his shoulders, but he tries to make himself take it without complaint, he knows he owes Bucky this and so much more. "I wish you'd -- I wanna ask you to stop."

Steve knew that was coming, but his back still stiffens; he looks up into Bucky's eyes, shiny wet and bottomlessly dark, but he can't keep from saying, "But then I wouldn't be your Stevie."

Bucky's mouth twists and Steve's heart hurts, he wishes he could apologize, but it's the God's honest truth. And Bucky nods, and smiles, sad and resigned but still a smile. "Yeah," he agrees, and pulls Steve up over his knees, pressed to his clean wet skin, tucks Steve's head beneath his chin and wraps warm arms around him in the cold water.

When Steve's teeth start chattering worse than he can hide, Bucky lets go long enough to get them out of the tub. "So where's your medal?" he asks, and Steve, toweling off with deliberate normalcy, nods towards Bucky's pants in the pile on the floor. Bucky reaches into his pocket, pulls it out and turns it over. "St. Jude," he says.

 _Patron saint of lost causes._ A harsh laugh punches Steve square in the chest, even though his ribs ache under his bruises, even though his heart aches worse and he clutches at his heaving belly. Bucky laughs and laughs, clenching his fist around the medal, tears leaking from his scrunched-shut eyes. He hiccups into a throat-rasping sob, shoving his fists against his good eye and his wobbling lips, and Steve drops the towel, wraps his arms around Bucky's middle, and gets them both into bed before his own shudders ripple to the surface.

Naked under the sheets and quilt, wrapped in each other, they ride out the shakes together, down to the quiet of the distant city night and their matched wordless breathing. Eventually Steve's stomach settles and the leering faces fade from behind his eyes, and when he finally falls asleep it's with Bucky's parted lips pressed to his forehead, Bucky's long solid legs draped over his, Bucky's hand broad on his back, cradling the medal of St. Jude warm against his skin.


End file.
